


Complementary

by Twisted_Mind



Series: the gentleness that comes [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bad Alpha Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Beta Derek Hale, Discipline, Dom Chris Argent, Dom/sub, Gentle Dom Chris Argent, Getting Together, Hand Feeding, Hunter Chris Argent, Kink Negotiation, Kneeling, M/M, POV Chris Argent, Post-Canon, Safewords, Spanking, Sub Derek Hale, kink as a coping mechanism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25524115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: The idea that someone might need him, that he might be able to do someone some good, is tempting like the whiskey bottle is, some nights, but he can’t—won’t—put that on Derek. This isn’t about him and the yawning emptiness the death of his entire family left behind. It’s about Derek.
Relationships: Chris Argent/Derek Hale, Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski
Series: the gentleness that comes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1849255
Comments: 48
Kudos: 248
Collections: Fandom Cares





	Complementary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bunnywest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/gifts).



> This fic is for Bunnywest, who won me in the FandomCares: BLM auction and requested a prequel to my previous Dargent fics (which follow this fic in the series). This thing fought me like crazy, but it is here, it is done, and I hope my darling Bunny enjoys it <3 
> 
> Big thanks to DiscontentedWinter and Mrs_Ridcully for pre-reading, typo-wrangling, and hand-holding as I fought with this thing. You're both wonderful.

After, Chris watches, because he can’t really do anything else. He’s given too much, had too much taken by this godforsaken town. The least he can do is keep an eye on it and make sure all the blood, sweat, and tears were worth it.

That, and he’s just. He’s tired. Feeling old these days in a way that’s got nothing to do with the grey in his beard or the way his back acts up before it rains, and everything to do with the fact that he doesn’t . . . really have anyone, anymore. He knows he could have, with Sheriff Stilinski, but he shies away from that. Too much reflected grief there, and he senses that the good Sheriff is much more fragile than he likes to let on. Chris—Chris might be feeling old, and he’s felt broken (by grief, or betrayal, or the sense that everything he ever thought he’d known about this life was built on lies) but not fragile. The fragile don’t survive. Not as hunters, and especially not as Argents.

He knows that leaving Melissa was the right thing, even if she didn’t agree. She didn’t know what he knew, didn’t realize how easy it could be for him to slip back into old patterns and allow a strong woman to call the shots as he tried his best to live up to expectations and ignored the quiet voice in the back of his mind whispering of dissent and half-formed, suppressed desires. She could only see the surface—a steadfast man, a reliable one, who would put her first where her husband never had.

She’s a good woman, and they were good together, but Chris knows himself. Knows it wouldn’t _stay_ good, couldn’t, with the years and years of deference despite misgivings behind him.

But that doesn’t mean everything she saw in him wasn’t true. He tries to be a good man, these days. It’s part of why he keeps tabs on the Pack, part of why he sees Derek starting to unravel at the seams before anyone else does. Stiles might, if he were here instead of Quantico, but he’s not here, and Chris, well. Chris maybe feels a little bit responsible for what’s left of the Hales.

It’s why he approaches Derek at the garage—at work, where he’s not alone, where he can run, if he needs to. Worry makes the skin between his heavy black brows crease when he sees Chris there. “Hey.” He comes over to where Chris is standing, scrubbing at the grease on his forearms with a rag. “What’s going on?”

Chris does his best to think calm thoughts, project reassurance to those heightened senses. It’ll convince Derek more than his words ever could. “Nothing much,” he answers slowly. “I just wanted to catch up with you. I’ve got a couple questions, figured I could maybe ask them over pie.”

Derek tilts his head, puppyish in his confusion. Chris understands—he’s made it clear he’s not here on supernatural-related business, and that he wants to meet in a public place so Derek will feel safe. It’s nowhere close to their usual methods of interaction. “Sure. There a time that works for you?”

Chris shakes his head. “I’ll make time. My schedule is flexible these days. When do you want to meet?”

Derek’s eyes flick to the clock. “Tomorrow, ‘round eleven? Before my shift in the afternoon.”

“Works for me.” Chris smiles. “The diner a couple blocks over work for you?”

Derek nods, and Chris isn’t surprised. He figures Derek knows the one—the other mechanics often order lunch from there. “Okay. Then I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night, Derek.”

He leaves, feeling the weight of Derek’s stare heavy between his shoulder blades until he’s turned the corner, out of sight.

***

Chris waves from the corner booth when Derek walks into the diner. He swallows and walks over slowly, hesitance in every movement. It almost hurts to see, when Chris knows he can move with enough fluid grace to put a naiad to shame, when he’s not wound tighter than piano wire. When Derek is in reasonable conversation range for humans, Chris speaks first. “I’m glad you came.”

Derek hums, but doesn’t say anything as he settles into the booth across from Chris. He looks around for a menu, and Chris clears his throat. “The waitress came by already. I ordered for us both, but if you don’t want it, you can ask for something else. I won’t be offended.”

Derek looks startled by that, but his shoulders also drop a little, which Chris didn’t expect. “Uh, thanks. What’d you get?”

Chris pulls a half smile and shrugs. “I went with the classics. Omelettes, home fries, coffee, toast. It’s early enough that you might not have had breakfast.”

Derek ducks his head to hide the small smile curling his lips, and Chris feels a lot more confident about how this little chat will go. “Thanks.”

“I hope you enjoy it,” Chris says, and he means it.

After their food arrives, they eat in companionable silence for a while. Chris isn’t opposed to that, even if it’s not exactly why he asked Derek to brunch. He knows that some things can’t be rushed.

Sure enough, after the edge has been taken off and they’re idly eating home fries, Derek broaches the subject of why they’re here. “So, not that having a good meal isn’t great, but why’d you ask me here? What’s going on?”

Chris sips his coffee as he contemplates how to answer. “I really did mean what I said, that I wanted to catch up. You don’t,” he pauses, and Derek gives him encouraging eyebrows. “You don’t look well,” he says eventually, hesitantly. “I’m worried about you.”

The surprise painting Derek’s face should be comical, but mostly, it’s just sad. “Wh—I’m fine.”

And the thing is, he’s not, really, and Chris can’t help the way fatherly concern and grief and an old, worn-in sort of responsibility fill his chest and probably his scent, but maybe that’s okay. “Except that I know you’re not,” he says, voice soft, like he can cushion the blow.

Derek looks on the verge of panicking, and opens his mouth, probably to spout more excuses, and Chris just—can’t.

“Look, it’s not—I’m not here as a hunter, or for any other reason than I’m worried about you. You’ve been through a lot, and my family has been responsible for most of it, and if there’s something you need, I want to make sure that you get it.”

For some reason, that stops Derek in his tracks. There’s a long moment of silence as green-grey eyes track over his face in a heartbreaking mix of confusion and wonder. Then, “You actually mean that,” Derek says slowly, like it’s a revelation.

“I don’t want you to suffer any more than you already have, and I’d like to help you, if you’ll let me.” It’s not exactly an easy thing to admit, but Chris figures it’s probably harder for Derek to hear than it is for him to say, which is exactly why he needs to say it at all.

Derek shudders, shoulders hunching as he pulls in on himself, hands wrapping around his coffee mug as his food sits forgotten. “I’m not—I don’t—I appreciate the sentiment, but you don’t—”

“Hey, it’s not a one-time offer,” Chris interrupts, hoping he can put Derek back at ease. “And you don’t have to answer right now. I just want you to know that there’s someone in this godforsaken town besides Peter that cares about you now that Stiles is gone. I want you to know that you can come to me if you need something—that I _want_ you to come to me if you need to.” He swallows down the rest, because there’s so much more he _could_ say, and knows he shouldn’t. The idea that someone might need him, that he might be able to do someone some good, is tempting like the whiskey bottle is, some nights, but he can’t—won’t—put that on Derek. This isn’t about him and the yawning emptiness the death of his entire family left behind. It’s about Derek.

Derek nods, but doesn’t speak. That’s okay, because his shoulders have also stopped trying to eat his ears, and Chris recognizes when he needs to back off. “You interested in pie?”

“What.” Derek squints, and Chris suddenly understands why Stiles rants sometimes about Derek refusing to inflect.

“Pie,” Chris repeats. “This diner does great breakfast, don’t get me wrong, but their pie is . . .” he whistles, and Derek makes an expression that might almost be called a smile. Chris will take it.

They end up ordering a slice apiece, and when Chris slides a card across the table with his number on it afterwards, Derek takes it silently. Chris figures that counts as success.

***

After that, Chris has to wait, no matter how impatient he sometimes gets when he thinks about it. He wants to help, wants to make things better, but he can’t unless and until he gets the green light. He can’t make that choice for Derek. Not now, not in this. Whatever “this” might be, because he still doesn’t actually know.

It takes a week, but then he gets a text from Derek asking if he can come over to and talk about the offer, and it’s like Chris can suddenly take a deep breath as tension he didn’t realize he was carrying unspools from his chest. He texts back an affirmative, and suddenly, Derek will be here in a few hours.

Chris suddenly feels anxiety like he hasn’t in years, and decides that the best way to deal with it is to go spend an hour in his home gym. And then shower, and tidy up the main floor of the house—werewolf noses aren’t selectively sensitive. When he thinks through that a little further, he cracks the windows, too. Fresh air can’t hurt.

Not that it stops Derek from scenting his nerves, based on the judgemental eyebrow Chris cops when he opens the door. Chris grimaces, but silently lets him in, noting that Derek seems more at ease here and now than he did a week ago at the diner. He’s not sure what the cause for the change is, but he’s grateful for it nonetheless.

“You hungry?”

Derek slants a look at him. “I could eat.”

Chris snorts, because of course he could. Shifter metabolisms are something else. “Not exactly what I asked, but come with me into the kitchen and we’ll find something for you.”

Derek follows him on silent feet, and it should be eerie, but it’s not. Chris wonders when having a werewolf at his back stopped giving him the heebie-jeebies. “You feeling like anything in particular?”

Chris can’t see it, but he swears he can _hear_ the shrug. “Not really. I had dinner a little while ago, so anything’s good, really.”

Chris decides that a bastardized charcuterie is probably a safe bet, and pulls out kielbasa and a couple kinds of cheese from the fridge. He keeps his focus on cutting up ingredients for their platter so he doesn’t spook Derek. “So, what’s on your mind?”

The wood of the kitchen stool creaks as Derek shifts in the moment before he answers. “I was thinking about your offer.”

Chris makes an encouraging noise as he loads up the platter with pieces of cheese, and keeps his heartrate steady.

“I appreciate it—I really do—but I can’t accept it.”

Chris hones in on a particular word there. “Why can’t you?” he asks casually, like he doesn’t give the frankly ridiculous number of shits he very much does, like the only important thing in the world right now is cutting up kielbasa.

Derek’s quiet for a moment, and Chris sneaks a glance out of the corner of his eye to see those thick eyebrows scrunched together. “I mean, there are a few reasons, but the big one is that I would never want to come between you and Melissa, so—”

“Ah,” Chris interrupts softly. “Let me stop you right there, because we aren’t actually together anymore.”

“What? Since when?”

Chris shrugs like he doesn’t still miss her fire when he’s trying to sleep between cold sheets. He knows he made the right decision, but that didn’t make it an easy one. “Been a while, by now. Couple months or so.” He pauses, and then tacks on, “If the two of us being together was your only reason, or even the main one, then you don’t have to worry about that.”

There’s a long moment of silence, but this time, Chris lets it hang. Eventually Derek says, “It wasn’t the only one,” like it’s dragged out of him.

Chris hums, and pulls out some crackers to add to the platter. “What are the others, then? Because what I’m hearing isn’t you telling me ‘no thank you’, or that you’re doing okay, that you have what you need. What you’re saying is that you feel like you can’t accept my offer, and that, well. That’s not the same as saying no, or even that you don’t want to.” He turns so he can see Derek’s face. “If you genuinely don’t want to, you just have to tell me that. You don’t need to invent excuses.”

Derek’s eyes dart over his face. “I forget, sometimes,” he murmurs, “the way you catch things.”

Chris gives a half-smile that’s all bitterness. “I was raised as a hunter, kid. You have to be observant, when you’re a human going up against the supernatural.”

“Right.” Derek’s eyes drop to his lap, and Chris wonders if he’s pushed too far.

“Is it the hunter thing? Because if it is, I’d understand, you know.” He knows his heart and chemosignals back that up, because he would. He’d be disappointed, upset, but he’d understand.

But Derek, oddly enough, is shaking his head. “It’s not. Not anymore, anyway.”

And, well, that tells him precisely shit. “Okay,” Chris says slowly, dragging it out into a half-question.

Derek huffs, nose wrinkling a little at the scent of Chris’s frustration. “It’s—I’m a werewolf.”

Chris has to take a deep breath and bite the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t let his knee-jerk sarcastic response to that out of his mouth. He thinks they might finally be getting somewhere. “Okay. And?”

Derek turns his head and stares at the floor. “It’s. The reason I’m—not doing well. It’s related.”

 _Allie, baby, help me out here_ , Chris thinks, because he’s never much believed in God, but his faith in his baby girl has never steered him wrong, and he hopes she’ll come through for him again. “I figured as much, but that’s still not an answer to why you can’t let me help you.”

Derek’s mouth pulls down at the corners. “I get that you mean well, but you probably can’t—”

“Why don’t you cut the bullshit and tell me what’s going on, let me make my own decisions, huh?” It’s a little sharper than Chris intends it to be, but he’s had more than enough of the dithering. “You were the one who wanted to come over here and talk about my offer, but so far, all you’ve done is talk around it.”

There’s a long moment of silence where Derek’s jaw works, a muscle in his cheek jumping as he grinds his teeth, hands curling into fists in his lap. “It’s the Pack,” he finally grits out.

“Okay.” Now they’re getting somewhere, and it’s easier to dial it down. “What about them?”

“It’s—there’s no hierarchy.”

For someone else, someone who isn’t a born wolf and hasn’t spent their entire lives learning about werewolves, it would be a non-sequitur. But Chris understands right away. “You’re feeling unmoored, because you can’t submit to your Alpha,” he says softly, like he’s soothing Allie after a nightmare.

Derek shrugs tight shoulders, but doesn’t elaborate—or refute it. Chris doesn’t need him to.

“It’s okay, I get that you need it. But why now? You were okay with the way things were before.” Chris has basically finished assembling the platter, but he thinks this might be easier for Derek with less eye contact, so he turns back around and rummages in the fridge for an apple to cut up.

Sure enough, once he’s not looking, Derek finds words. “It’s—Scott won’t let me do things for him, even if I ask. He doesn’t get it.”

Chris snorts. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen an Alpha _less_ suited to being a werewolf than that boy,” he agrees.

Derek gives a little chuckle. “Right. And, well. It doesn’t have to be the Alpha. That’s—it’s the best way, but.”

“But there’s an entire hierarchy, and that means that in traditional Packs, there would be others higher up the chain of command that you could go to,” Chris chimes in, hoping to show that he’s paying attention, he knows what is and isn’t being said. He places halved apple slices on the platter, and thinks grapes would round the whole thing off nicely.

“Right,” Derek grunts. There’s a pause, and then he continues. “When—before Stiles left for school, he.”

“Ah.” The pieces fall into place rapidly. “But without him here, you don’t have that.” Chris thinks for a moment about Peter, and wonders if it’s wise to bring him up, but ultimately, the more he knows about the situation, the better-equipped he’ll be to handle it. “I take it that’s not something you can get from your uncle?”

“No,” Derek barks, and Chris washes grapes and waits, because he knows there’s more. Eventually, Derek fills the silence. “He—we’re getting better. Closer. But I couldn’t do that with him.”

Chris hums. He knows he should treat lightly, handle this delicately, but he thinks directness might serve Derek better, this time. “So what I’m hearing is that you need a safe place to submit, settle the instincts?”

He turns, platter in hand, to see Derek nod, white-faced under his stubble, and he makes a decision.

“Okay. Can you grab a bottle of water out of the fridge, and then follow me into the living room?” He doesn’t wait to see if Derek obeys, instead trusting that he will.

Sure enough, when he turns around to sit in the living room, Derek has followed right behind him, a bottle of water clutched awkwardly in one hand. Chris sets the platter down, and decides to take a calculated risk. He tosses one of the throw pillows from the couch onto the floor, and holds out a hand. “I’ll take that, thank you,” he says, setting the bottle of water down on the end table, next to the platter. “And now, I’d like it very much if you’d kneel for me.”

Derek freezes, eyes widening and head tilting slightly. Chris thinks it’s a minor miracle that he doesn’t run. “What? Why?”

Chris looks into those big, multi-hued eyes, and thinks he should probably return Derek’s faith in kind. “Do you know why I left Melissa?” It’s a rhetorical question, but Derek shakes his head anyway. Chris continues, though it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to admit to another person. “She’s a strong woman, and I loved that about her. But I was raised to submit to strong women without question, without complaint.”

“Matriarchy,” Derek mutters, and Chris nods.

“Exactly.” His stance shifts to mimic parade rest. “I was raised to be a soldier and do as I was told. And I don’t hold with that anymore, but it was how I lived and all I knew most of my life. I don’t trust myself not to fall into old patterns, which means making new ones.”

Chris pauses, and takes a deep breath before deliberately relaxing his stance, and sitting on the couch, legs splayed wide, framing the pillow between his feet. There are things he could say, parallels he could draw, but there’s no point. Derek is smart enough to know they’re there, and Chris, well. He doesn’t need to add humiliation to rejection, if that’s the way tonight goes.

He looks up at Derek, who’s staring at him, mouth open a little, and asks, “Kneel for me?”

It feels nothing short of miraculous that Derek does. He pauses to shuck his leather jacket, tossing it over the back of the armchair, and he moves slowly, eyes trained on Chris’s face, but he sinks gracefully to his knees, hands clenched on his thighs. “What now?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Now,” Chris moves slowly, telegraphing his movements so he doesn’t spook Derek, “you let me take care of you.” He nudges a piece of cheese against Derek’s lips, and waits.

Derek opens his mouth, letting Chris pop the bite inside, and he chews slowly, looking confused. After swallowing, he says, “I don’t understand.”

Chris curls his left hand around the heavily stubbled jaw, holding a grape out with his other hand. He waits until Derek’s taken it to answer. “Right now, you’re submitting to me, and that makes you mine. And I take care of what’s mine.”

Something sweet and fragile blooms in Derek’s eyes at that, and he takes the next bite from Chris’s hands more easily. “That’s it?”

Chris smiles, feeding him a bit of sausage on a cracker. “For now,” he says easily. “We’re still feeling this out, and needs can change with time. But for right now,” he presses his fingertips to the skin behind Derek’s ear, push-pulling downward and making the muscle loosen, “all you have to do to be my good boy is kneel for me, and let me feed you. Okay?”

Derek’s eyelashes flutter as his eyes close. It’s a long moment before they open again as he husks, “Yes, sir.”

And Chris, well. He likes the sound of that more than he probably should, and Derek can probably tell, but that’s something they’ll revisit later. For now, he has a sweet, beautifully obedient boy to look after. Everything else can wait.

***

Chris waits a week, because he figures that’s fair—what they did may have seemed small or ridiculous to an outsider, but he was there. He knows what it felt like, to press gun-callused, wolfsbane-stained hands against that darkly-stubbled cheek and throat as he handfed Derek the entire platter in between sips of water. He knows what it _means_ , that a born wolf let him do those things.

So as much as he wants to reel his boy back in just for the comfort of having him close, Chris gives him some time. He probably needs it too, should be using the time apart to think things through, decide if it’s really something he wants, if it’s wise to pursue this beyond a simple meeting of complementary needs, but he doesn’t. The warmth that had bloomed in his chest as Derek relaxed into his hands, the way he’d felt powerful and alive with a gentleness he thought he’d lost when his baby girl was laid in the earth’s embrace, is enough to convince him.

It’s nothing like the thrill of a hunt, the razor-sharp awareness of every breath and twitch of muscle because every moment might be your last. That’s the kind of alive he’s known most frequently, most intimately throughout his life, but this—this is different. This is the kind of alive he’s always been helplessly greedy for, that buoyant glow that comes with not wanting to close your eyes because you want to stretch a single moment into forever.

He wants more of those forever-moments with Derek—as many as he can have—but he knows that isn’t up to him. They have to be on the same page with this. So he waits.

But after a week without word, he seeks Derek out at the garage again, and ignores the impressive scowl darkening his boy’s face, because he sees the way those huge shoulders hunch and curl defensively.

“What are you doing here?” Derek snaps, as if he thinks that’s enough to drive Chris away.

“You haven’t replied to any of my texts, so I figured your phone must be broken again,” Chris says lightly. It’s a lie and they both know it, would even if Derek couldn’t hear the blip in his heartbeat.

The scowl deepens, and Derek’s eyes dart from side-to-side, though Chris isn’t sure what it is he’s looking for. “Or maybe I just didn’t want to talk to you.”

And, well. This is disappointing, but Chris can’t say he’s surprised. Given the history, it would’ve been much more shocking if he didn’t try to back out. “Derek,” he says, his voice heavy with the expectation he’ll be obeyed, “I understand this isn’t the time or place to sort this out, but we do need to talk about it. Come over after your shift ends.”

And then he walks out, and doesn’t look back. His phone chimes as he reaches his car, and when he unlocks it, he sees a text from Derek that just says, _that wasn’t a request, was it_

No punctuation. No wonder Stiles made fun of him.

 _No, it’s not_ , he texts back.

And then he heads home and waits. Fortunately for Derek, he shows up about an hour and a half later instead of testing Chris’s patience with disobedience and a complete refusal to communicate. Unfortunately, an hour and a half is more than enough time to get his thoughts in order.

So he answers the door, nods Derek inside, and heads into the living room with a quiet, “In here.” He takes a seat in the same armchair he sat in when he handfed a beautifully pliant boy, but he doesn’t offer a pillow to kneel on this time. Derek’s left to figure out where to sit on his own.

Chris doesn’t wait for him to sit before speaking. “So. I’d like you to walk me through the thought process that led you to leaving here and dropping off the face of the earth, completely ignoring my attempts to check-in with you.”

Derek shuffles awkwardly before stuffing his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He still hasn’t sat down, and Chris wonders if maybe he misread this whole thing. “Look, I appreciate what you did, but it’s not something we can do again.”

Chris doesn’t give in to the crushing disappointment trying to close around his lungs like a vice. Derek rarely coughs up what he means the first time. “Why not?”

He gets an impressive scowl. “What, you want me to explain it to you?”

“Yes, Derek, explain it to me,” he says, cold and sharp, because if this goes the way he wants it to, he needs to set a good example from the start, and that means no disrespect. “Because, from my perspective, I approached you, offering help because you seemed to need it, and after accepting, you disappeared on me. I’m worried about you, and you shut me out.”

Derek’s shoulders drop, and his head droops forward. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Well, then tell me how you _did_ mean it, because I don’t know,” Chris orders softly.

Derek squirms again, clearly uncomfortable, but he also pulls his hands out of his pockets and sits across from Chris, bracing his elbows on his knees. “This entire situation is a mess,” he mutters quietly, and Chris doesn’t refute it. Then, more clearly, “I need you to know that I appreciate your offer, but I can’t—I can’t impose on you like that. Not when this is something I need to figure out a long-term solution for. It’s not fair to you, and I wouldn’t feel right.”

“I see.” And he does, but probably not the way Derek thinks. “Derek, I need you to answer a couple questions for me, and I need the truth. I’ll keep the questions simple, yes or no. Understood?”

Derek’s brows pull together slightly, eyes narrowing, but he nods. “Understood.”

“Good.” Chris leans forward to mirror Derek’s position. “What we did last time, did that settle your instincts?”

Derek hesitates. “Yes.”

Chris nods, because he expected that. “Were you uncomfortable with it, or was there a moment where you felt unsafe?”

“No.” This time, there’s no hesitation, and Derek’s shaking his head for emphasis.

“Okay.” Time for the harder questions, then. “Do you feel like you can’t trust me to satisfy your instincts?”

Something about that catches and holds Derek’s attention the way nothing else has, and Chris forces himself to keep still and not look away as those kaleidoscope eyes scan his face. “I told you the other night, I’m not—you being a hunter is just. Part of you. I know you won’t use that against me.”

And that’s reassuring, except, “That’s not quite what I asked, though I’m glad to hear that.”

Derek huffs, lips thinning for a moment. “I trust you.”

“Thank you,” Chris murmurs, because he knows the weight of that statement. “Is an arrangement with me something you don’t want?”

Derek opens his mouth to answer, but closes it again without saying anything. He ducks his head, frowning to himself.

Chris gives him a moment, but when there’s no answer forthcoming, he pushes. Just a little. “Derek, leave aside everything else. This is just about what you _want_.”

Derek heaves in a shuddering breath before admitting, “I don’t _not_ want it,” like it’s been dragged out of him, and Chris wants to go to him, smooth a thumb between those thick eyebrows and tell him to kneel, to let Chris carry the weight bending his spine for a little while.

Instead, he murmurs, “Okay. Thank you for telling me that. I have a couple harder questions, but I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need to know.” Derek nods sharply, just the once, and Chris continues. “You mentioned a long-term solution. What are you looking for, exactly? What would a long-term solution look like, for you?”

Derek drags his hands over his face, scrubbing back and forth over his beard. “I don’t know,” he sighs. “Ideally, the Pack would acknowledge that there’s a hierarchy so this isn’t an issue, but,” he shrugs, and Chris’s mouth twists as he nods. They both know the likelihood of that is on par with a snowball’s chance in Hell.

When Derek doesn’t elaborate, Chris decides he might as well poke. So far, it’s gotten good results, and the dynamic between Derek and Stiles is making so much more sense, now. “Is there a reason why an arrangement with me can’t be your long-term solution?”

Derek shifts uneasily, but stays silent. Chris waits him out, and eventually gets a muttered, “Doesn’t seem fair to you.”

At that, Chris’s chest loosens, because now they’re getting somewhere. “Why wouldn’t it be fair to me?”

Derek’s eyebrows pull together until they touch, and the muscles in his forearms flex. “How could it be? You’re not Pack, so you don’t—it’s not reciprocal.”

And that right there is a misconception that Chris needs to clear up immediately. “Derek, I never said I didn’t get anything out of this. From where I’m standing, an arrangement between us would be good for us both, but instead of talking to me about your concerns, you went off half-cocked and made a decision for the both of us without discussing it with me first.”

Derek doesn’t speak, but distressed regret line his face as he nods.

And, well. Chris has an idea. “In a Pack, if you pulled rank like that on your Alpha, there’d be some kind of discipline handed out, yes?”

Derek squints at him, looking confused. “Maybe. Depends on the Pack.”

Chris gets up and crosses the space between them to fit his hand under Derek’s jaw, tilting his face up. Fuck it. Time to go for broke. “I think there’s something between us, something that could be really good, and I want it. Do you?”

This time, Derek’s “yes,” isn’t hesitant.

“I want to own you, want you to be my good boy.”

This close, it’s easy to see the way Derek’s pupils dilate at the prospect. “And what would you be to me?”

Chris hums as he thinks about that for a moment, remembers how Derek addressed him from his knees. “I’d be your Sir, I think.”

Derek licks his lips. “I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah?” At the nod he gets, Chris bring his other hand to curl in the thick hair at the back of Derek’s head. His grip is tight, but not painful, not pulling. Not this time, not yet. “I do, too.”

Derek’s eyes close briefly, relief washing over his features. “So what now?”

“Now,” Chris husks, “we have a small matter of discipline to attend to.”

The skin around Derek’s eyes tightens in worry, but he makes no move to pull away from Chris’s hands, and the show of trust makes heat bloom in the pit of Chris’s belly. “Oh?”

“Mm.” Chris releases his grip on Derek’s hair, but doesn’t remove his hand, cradling the back of his boy’s head. “I told you, I take care of what’s mine. And you made the executive decision not to let me do that by ignoring my check-ins. You also tried to make a decision for me, about whether or not I want this and am willing to commit to it. You didn’t even speak to me first, you just did it, tried to take this away from both of us even though we want it. Does that sound like the sort of behaviour I should let slide?”

Derek’s face is soft and impossible to describe as he whispers, “No, Sir.”

“No,” Chris echoes, stepping back. “So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to punish you,” he says it softly, running his knuckles over Derek’s cheek and dragging through his beard, “and then we can put it behind us. If you need me to stop, you say ‘red’. If you’re just not sure of what’s happening, need to ask a question or a bit of a break, you say ‘yellow’. If I ask how you’re doing and you’re good, you tell me ‘green’.”

“Like stoplights?”

“Exactly like stoplights, my smart boy.” He smiles, proud of Derek for catching on. “Alright. I want you to come stand here,” Chris moves around the armchair Derek’s sitting in, and points at the floor behind it, “so you can brace against the chair.” Derek nods, and stands up, moving into the space Chris indicated.

This next bit could make or break tonight, Chris knows, but his gut insists this is the right call, so he says, “I want you to drop your pants for me.”

Derek’s hand hovers over the button of his jeans for a long moment before he flicks it open muttering, “Yellow.”

Chris runs a hand from his boy’s back down to his waist. “You okay?”

Derek crosses his arms over his chest. “I just—what’s happening here?”

Chris isn’t sure what Derek’s asking, until he does. “I’m going to spank you,” he replies, calmly unbuckling his belt as Derek’s eyes go wide with shock. “Normally, for something like this, I’d use my hand, but I know how fast you heal, and this is a lesson I want to stick, so,” he holds up his belt, folded over so a short loop of braided leather juts from the top of his fist.

Derek takes a shuddering breath, and undoes the zip of his jeans. “Okay.”

As they both settle into position, Derek slightly bent over with his hands braced on the back of the armchair, and Chris a little to one side, his free hand resting lightly on Derek’s shoulder, it strikes him that he should clarify. “I’m never going to use sex to punish you, Derek,” he murmurs, and he feels tension goes out of the muscles under his hand. “Anything sexual between us will be a shared, mutually-enjoyable event.”

He waits a moment, and then asks, “You ready?”

The “Yes, Sir,” he gets back is quiet, but firm. Steady.

Chris starts off moderately, using more force than he would on human ass cheeks, but works his way up to harder strikes. The first time the belt really cracks across Derek’s skin, catching the tender underside of the left cheek where it meets the thigh, Derek gives a little sob, and Chris murmurs, “That’s it, that’s my good boy. Taking it so well.”

He doesn’t count the strikes, knowing that it would be meaningless. This isn’t about a set number of stripes per infraction, it’s about wiping the slate clean and creating a solid foundation so Derek will let Chris keep him, so Chris can trust that his boy won’t ever try to run and leave him behind without so much as a ‘goodbye’.

He stops when the sting of the leather has run far enough of ahead of Derek’s advanced healing to turn his skin a rosy pink. For a long moment after, there’s nothing but the sound of Derek’s panting breaths and the dull ache in Chris’s shoulder.

Then, “Done?”

Chris pauses for a moment, considering how to answer that. “You tell me.”

Derek hauls his jeans back up, wincing a little when the denim rasps over his stinging backside. When he turns around, the look he gives Chris is hesitant, sweet, a little shy. It’s nothing Chris has ever seen on his face before and it’s breathtaking on him. “I hope not,” he hesitates, then adds, “Sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come cry with me over Chris Argent on [Tumblr](https://queerfictionwriter.tumblr.com/).


End file.
